Run, You Clever Boy, and Remember
by Muffliato
Summary: Following 'The Rings of Akhaten', the Doctor lost his story. Forgot, actually, for not even the Oncoming Storm (with a millennia of appetising, wibbly-wobbly memories) could come away from the Old God unscathed.—Amnesic!Eleventh, technically almost canon. Nope, not kidding!
1. I'll Tell You A Story

******A/N:** A week ago my friends and I were watching the premier of 'The Rings of Akhaten'. With most of us being crazy Whovians, we sat in relatively rapt attention (which meant that there was a minimal fraction of our usual interruptions, and these mainly consisted of shouted death threats at the laptop whenever BBC glitched and paused). At the credits we were shocked to silence. Then, we erupted in unison:

"A leaf?"

"They destroyed the star! The hell? Everyone on that planet's going to die! Seven planets, actually. Nice going Clara, here's your ring as a reward! Just run away with the mad man and his blue box."

"A leaf?!"

"Even if the people survived, they destroyed the society's god. And religion. Their main economy, in fact, since this was probably their major tourist selling point."

"Told you Matt Smith's a stalker. Poor Clara; poor Amy! This is why David Tennant is the one and only Doctor."

"Err, guys? THE DOCTOR JUST GAVE AWAY ALL HIS MEMORIES! LIKE, WTF OMG?"

"DID A FREAKING LEAF JUST SAVE THE DAY!?"

This fanfic, perhaps sadly, won't be along the lines of 'the most important leaf in the world' or 'the destroyer of worlds', but on how the Doctor _gave away all his memories to a parasitic, soul-eating 'deity'_—before walking away as though this wasn't a big deal. No. That's not how it works. Fanon itself won't allow it, nor will I. Thus, I theorise: what if there was a delayed reaction instead? It would take a lot of time to go through eleven regenerations of recollections. The best bit? The story I have planned can technically fit into canon!

I'm very sorry if this first chapter is confusing. The odd structure of this one came about from the Doctor losing his memories. To help your understanding, everything in parenthesis in this chapter are the TARDIS' 'thoughts', and while I focus on the reboot there are references to Classic Who (for example, I mention the Time War, and that the Doctor first travelled to Earth with his granddaughter Susan, who stayed after falling in love with a human).

**General Disclaimer:** *looks above* And…after that you think I'm Steven Moffat? Really?

* * *

_"Oh, you like to think you're a god. But you're not a god. You're just a parasite. Eat now with jealousy and envy and longing for the lives of others. You feed on them. On the memory of love and loss and birth and death and joy and sorrow, so… so come on then. Take mine. Take my memories. But I hope you're got a big appetite. Because I've lived a long life and I've seen a few things. I walked away from the last great Time War. I marked the passing of the Time Lords. I saw the birth of the universe and watched as time ran out, moment by moment, until nothing remained. No time, no space. Just me! I walked in universes where the laws of physics were devised by the mind of a madman! And I watched universes freeze and creation burn! I have seen things you wouldn't believe! I have lost things you will never understand! And I know things, secrets that must never be told, knowledge that must never be spoken! Knowledge that will make parasite gods blaze! So come on then! Take it! Take it all, baby! Have it! You have it all!"_

The Doctor to 'Grandfather' in 'The Rings of Akhaten' (Season 7, Episode 8).

* * *

The door shut.

"Home again, home again." The Doctor repeated with a wain sigh, pacing with nervous energy while absently throwing his sonic screwdriver to the seat. Ever since leaving the Rings of Akhaten, he'd felt off-balanced. Off-kilter. As though he'd spotted a dozen Silence but the memory was lurking out of reach—and wasn't that a pleasant thought. He paused, straightened his bow tie, and tried to throw off the feeling by concentrating on the present. "'Come back tomorrow'. No one ever remembers temporal displacements mean nothing in here! She'd have no idea if I came back in a century or five minutes."

'whHHHiiiRRR…'

"True. Of anybody, Clara would guess. Temporally, biologically impossible and all." He fidgeted with the controls, having decided that, even as a distraction, patience was most certainly not cool. Nor would be waiting a century. Tomorrow's breakfast could come at any moment, so why not this one? Yet even with this decided he still hesitated, for the unbalanced 'something-that-was-not-really-anything-but-perhap s-everything' niggled with more vehemence in the back of his head. "What am I doing? Contemplating the into everything and nothing at once of vanishing charms is completely irrelevant and—" he shook his head, jostled the orange doo-hickeys, and told himself to focus.

Right, focus. No problem. Not letting any thoughts wander astray like lost lambs: his specialty! That, and pressing recollections back with the confidence of a millennium of experiences. Give or take. Most certainly 'give', but who was counting? No no no, hold back, rewind. No wandering! Running! Into tomorrow, that is, to figure out the mystery of the Impossible Girl.

Smiling lightly, the Doctor jumped back into action, pulling and swerving the TARDIS' controls as though he knew precisely what he was doing. Which he most certainly did. River had no idea what she was talking about. Of course he knew how to park, but who didn't like the whirring noise? It was irresistible. Exactly like how he adored the new desktop adorning the console's greyed rafters.

Very grey-ish, in fact.

His hands paused as he gazed up, contemplating the ceiling with his features pulled in a frown. He wasn't sure what was wrong with the old girl these days. Not that there was any lack of heartbreak, but its abundance made any particular cause difficult to pin down. With the Ponds the TARDIS had been swept away in a whirl of kaleidoscopic fairy tales, a regular chocolate factory that would have made Dahl green with envy. It did, actually, and the man had promptly turned around and stolen the idea. But the Doctor had been not-so-secretly thrilled to have Wonka be based off of yours truly. River hadn't stopped laughing for days (minutes, ages?), but he'd been pleased as a pickle. Much made up for Jo's little spat with him over a broken arm—which he fixed, he did; he was called Doctor for a reason—which resulted in a toothy character. Lockhart, mmph. Hadn't even made him a redhead.

Wait, that was odd. It'd been awhile since he'd recalled any of that. Nostalgia was something best left for others since it always dwelt too close to regret for his liking and, no. No. That? He refused. There was a reason he never looked backwards.

But that was all beside the point, and the past was meant to be abandoned somewhere wibbly-wobbly off in the distance! Since the Untempered Schism, the only way onward he knew was to run, charging forward to something forever. Infinite, more infinite than even the most important leaf in existent; different, fascinating, ridiculously alive and open to the touch. Even as the Ponds and, yes, Rivers had swirled away on notes, Sexy had most likely greyed from a dislike of his 'Clara obsession' (though the silly thief insisted he'd be amiss if he _didn't_ investigate such an impossible human—oh, he just loved those), and he was becoming analogical in his middle age. Worst things to be, he supposed. Lonely, for one. But this sort of thought hardly helped. Clara was gone, companions only thudded in his memories, and the last trip had caught him unawares with visions of family.

Of Susan. His dear, dear girl who'd longed to see the stars. So much like her mother, so much like him.

The Doctor gripped the console tightly, head bowed. NO! no No _No_. Why was he thinking of her now? Search for an off-switch; found, but raced away without pause as his mind continued spiralling with tootootoo many memories. OFF! Off you silly thing! This wasn't what he wanted! Not what he needed, either, so that mustn't dare be a justification!

Hardly noticing the whirring of take off, or the TARDIS' humming to try and draw him back (runRun_Run_ to the present, future, side-ways, whatnot! GOOD BYE! Oh, you've been so sad. Will be? Ought to be? Tenses _are_ funny). The Doctor was deaf to all as his knees began to buckle, whirls of colours and nonsensical shapes cascading past his eyes—and oh, how he suddenly missed the peaceful grey.

Teeth almost biting through lip, he saw it all, everything connecting in two heartbeats: Susan's love of humanity, his failure to keep her safe and so far away from an unwinnable war, to think she was out there lost (so, so very lost. My poor, dear thief; you are so much bigger on the inside), and he could do nothing. Nothing at all, except keep whatever last bit of her safe.

Her love.

_They are under my protection_. It had never been Clara, River, Amy, Donna, Martha, Rose, Sarah Jane, Romana, or so many others who'd passed through this dimension of a box. Or Earth itself; though don't test their protector, the Oncoming Storm, for he had oh so many rules. And that was the crux of it. The tragic, melodramatic catch: he could solve any problem in this universe or soap bubbles beyond, except for his own.

Why did he taste a drop of metallic copper? Which wasn't actually copper, or metal. He was fairly certain he wasn't metal. Not when he'd last checked, though with the harsh, shivering tremors breaking down his spine—with not even a glimpse of healing gold—he wouldn't have been shocked at anything. Not anymore. But this was wrong! Wrong Wrong _WRONG!_ Something was wrong with him, with his thoughts. He knew it, he did…he knew something. What? Oh, what he'd give for a Rememberall. Though he wasn't sure where that odd word had come from.

The Doctor squabbled in his pockets, his motions far shakier than normal. Help, that's what he needed. A Time Lord distress call. But no, something was also wrong with that. Oh right, no others. All alone. Except, except for a few. He needed psychic paper! Pen something and River would be here five minutes ago, spoilers and all. Maybe she'd even be his wife.

He hesitated, biting back a scream as another series of thoughts fell away. As this passed he jerkily glanced down, eyes lighting in confusion. Why was he searching his pocket? Why was he thinking of Mels? No, wait, someone else. Who? Some kind of doctor. Not a actual kind, he didn't think, but that word did have an infinite amount of definitions. Just like a leaf.

Wait, what? A leaf?

Drifting in puzzlement, the Doctor never noticed the TARDIS draw to a stop. But the oddly gentle bump in landing was the last straw needed to drop him to his knees, a thousand years (and a thousand more, my poor, silly thief) of memories streaming as his hands uselessly clutched his hair—pocket and psychic paper long forgotten; never even contemplated. Not contemplated. Will not contemplate. And he howled. Oh, how he howled, Howled, _HOWLED_; his Bad Wolf would be proud but sososo sad… if she wasn't lost. Lost, like all the rest who had (will, won't, should have) yearned for the stars. Set adrift with his other hand, a single, unbroken heart for company. Page one again, but he'd missed the possibilities. He was envious. Another chance at life, to be a father.

A storm raged in his head, and he forgot. Almost, that is. Crucial bits of plot and conflict filtered away, and in this moment he found that, no, he didn't particularly mind seeing them go. He was almost grateful for the relief, of his shoulders being unburdened at last. These were easy to lose. The pain came from the rest.

For there was only one thing that the Doctor tightly grasped onto, what he yelled and begged to recall: he had once told a story. No, not singular. Erase. He had told so many tales that he'd lost track himself. The truth was relative, happily separate from subjectivity. The past could be rewritten, and little details hardly mattered. It was the story he loved, the tale that all flocked to. Trust him to lie. That's what made him the Doctor.

_Once upon a time, there was a man and his granddaughter_.

She had wanted to see the stars. He was a grumpy old man (so, so young, my thief, barely more than a boy) who had wanted to see her smile. Neither had an adventure so they ran away. They borrowed a Type 40 time travel capsule, a TARDIS that had been a museum piece since he was young, and had always meant to return it. Maybe. Someday. But the TARDIS had likewise yearned to find her story, and would forevermore insist that she'd stolen her thief (not 'borrowed', never that, for it implied the eventual intention to return the thing that was taken. And what makes you think I would ever give you back?). They had always (forever, eternally, ever after; synonyms _are_ fun!) wanted to go.

_Once upon a time, there was a dark and stormy night_.

An oncoming storm, the end of so many songs in a forest without trees. So many Libraries.

He far preferred museums; archeologists, sideways melodies and all. Of lost love, but not quite. Not then, not now, not ever, not with any tense. Mostly, they fell and had happily evers. It was the monsters that came after—Susan leaving her son, Astrid flying in the stars she so craved, Rose twinkling with no more stars to burn, Donna's memories filtering away (had she felt like this? Relief and painPain_Pain_ in one?), Amy the fairy tale and Rory the Roman without their melody and parents, the Master who refused the Call of his heartbeats—that lost their songs. They did. Every last one; and he'd been running from his own prophecy for far too long.

Not the four knocks. That was a pause; this was a good bye without a farewell.

_Once upon a time, there was a hero_.

Who ranRan_RAN!_ Never fast enough, and who could never be a healer, a wise man.

Dratted dichotomy. For protagonist, yes! Fair consolation prize, but it always lagged along with antagonism. One could never be just a hero because, oh! Flip side, what a lark. The Destroyer of Worlds accompanied every knight in silver armour, and no. No no NO! Why couldn't he refuse both? To be happy, content. With no influence whatsoever, a hermit with lots of little hermit friends so that he would never be lonely. Parfait! With a bow tie, with fish fingers and pears—no, that was wrong; was it?—who was never tempted by the big, shiny red buttons of the universe.

Wait, buttons? Who said anything about that? Blue stabilisers, that was it. Not sure what they actually did. Not sure if he ever did. Maybe his melody did, if only he could recall. Something about breaking improperly, of pressing the button and making Gallifrey disapparate with a _poof_! Just so he could continue his song. Though not, not quite, because that wasn't it.

Again, repeat; what button? Rowling? Gallifrey? He wasn't sure what, but he thought he'd take it back. Everything, take it all away! He dared the so-called-god (goodness knows we've met enough) to live with this. To look through the memories and be haunted every single moment (day, age, era) by all of time that could not be undone. All the moments he'd turned right. All the days he'd turned left, and lost. Was so, so lost.

_So take them_. The Doctor remembered what was happening, faintly recalled it through the haze of nightmares. "TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM ALL! Aren't you hungry? Full already? _TAKE THEM!_" Let's see if it'd survive. Was it already dead? Hardly mattered, for the dream was already fading back like all the rest.

In a last frantic clutch, he clasped his eyes shut, concentrating on his final thoughts. For the principle of the matter. To gain peace with this ever after. Because, because he'd prefer to read about history in the dratted libraries rather than rushing about. He would, he would. He was so tired (so exhausted; sleep, my thief) of endangering time and everyone in it with a sightseers' glee. A sightseer who likened himself a deity. A King. A Lord. The Lord of Time, the last. Couldn't remember who'd given him that title; maybe he'd bestowed it himself. Like Napoleon, or so many Bad Wolves who had huffed and puffed, creating themselves out of tales, nightmares. The boogeyman. The being that monsters under the bed were afraid of in the dead of night. No, he wouldn't miss this.

The Doctor let it go with a sigh of relief that, in two heartbeats, turned to puzzlement.

There was something, something he couldn't put his finger on—lots of fingers and toes, none of which were bright, shiny and new. Though his hand ought to be? No, past face, rather foxy, not red like a riding hood, but rude. Right. Maybe?—that he was missing. Some reason why being a hero was rubbish. He contemplated for a microsecond that it was the pain that came from centuries of memories being ripped away without a by-your-means, but dismissed this in the next halted, wilting breath.

_Once upon a time, there was a mad man with a box_.

Without a box. For the drumming pierced his head and the soothing of the TARDIS only made the memories tug up and out, faster and faster as his hearts broke. 1,000 years? Hah. He'd been lying about his age for longer than he cared to remember. Wasn't sure he'd ever truly recalled it. He'd long lost track of it, just like the stories he told. The ages and tales replaced with whatever the psychic paper saw fit. As easy to change as identities. As heads. As personas.

Not as companions, though. Never them. For it hurt so much… and everything was too bloody loud! The cries went beyond pain, to a loss of something he'd suddenly truly, absolutely, intrinsically lost track of (they fell through your fingers, maybe captured in the matrix? Maybe safe, my dear thief, I'll try). He collapsed back onto his hands, and the position would've been painful if it wasn't surmounted by everything else. The TARDIS whirred in worry, something which, if he'd been thinking properly, would have made him pat her console reassuringly. But this slight noise was still too much; as it clenched his skull in a death-grip all he knew was he had to _get out!_

The Doctor wasn't sure how he managed to crawl to the entrance. Though the haze, the front door opened of its own accord, and a gentle push sent him sprawling into the open air and slight drizzle. No tongue was stuck into the breeze to determine the coordinates (right where you need to be, silly boy). He didn't contemplate the feel of rough concrete beneath his skin, if River would pop in to save the day, the mystery of the Impossible Girl, the previous adventure, what exactly he'd done by feeding the Old God every last one of his recollections, why his head felt as though it would burst from pain, anguish, and too much joy for anyone to hold, why his memories were slipping away like drops against so many rivered ponds, and why there was an odd whirring noise that sounded as though he was being left behind. Lost (See? Tenses _are_ difficult. But I'm sorry. You understand. You understood. You will understand. HELLO).

_Once upon a time, the narrator forgot the story_.

Because they had called—will call, always called, never called, did call—him the Doctor. He didn't know why. He thought he called himself that too; still didn't know why. Though one did call him something else, a few syllables meant only for the ears of another impossible girl. But that song had passed. It was in the air, the breeze, sweeping away from him in a rush of terribly grating finite.

Through the pierced screams—his? Theirs? The air's, the world's, all those he had lost to the stars—the Doctor barely noticed the humans emerge onto the Roald Dahl Plass from the monument. Or their rushing and shouting of _whowhatwhenwherewhyhow_. Only one of these stuck with his dwindling thoughts, and whatever part of him left was surprised even this stayed. As the terrified noise caught in his throat, he fell into the nothing lapsing on everything. All thus vanished except a single question, which faded with a whimper:

'Doctor Who?'

* * *

**A/N:** A terribly cliché end, but it was impossible to resist! Still, at least it's not the _actua_l end as this will be a chaptered fic. I'm not sure how long it will run for; I suppose it entirely depends on interest.

I would ask, 'Any guesses on who's found the Doctor?', but it's pretty clear from the tagline!


	2. A Man Who Fell From The Stars

**A/N:** As of 'The Rings of Akhaten' episode, Jack Harkness had yet to meet the Eleventh Doctor. So if an amnesiac, bow tie wearing being with two hearts plopped down on his doorstep, our favourite bisexual immortal would be a mite confused.

In terms of chronology, this story takes place post-'The Rings of Akhaten' for "Doctor Who", and post-'A Day in the Death' for "Torchwood". What that means for the latter is that everyone's kinda-sorta still 'alive' (though Owen's undead) and Martha's working with them.

Coolio? Great!

**General Disclaimer:** If I was writing this properly, Ianto would've been killed off by a Weevil. Oh, the shame of writing in something resembling canon *sighs*.

* * *

_'Gwen Cooper: "Jack, what would have tempted you? What visions would have convinced you to open the Rift?"_

_Captain Jack Harkness: "The right kind of Doctor."' From "Torchwood", 'End Of Days'._

* * *

Captain Jack Harkness wished he could say this had been a strange day. He really did. But finding a screaming, flailing man directly in front of Torchwood 3 hardly even made the list. That they'd been alerted to his presence when Tosh registered a blip (a very big 'blip') in the rift had been unusual, but he'd seen enough aliens and poor souls being spat out to be shocked at one occurring so close to headquarters.

That the man was humanoid and not disfigured was what put Jack on alert (even before he left the lift's perception filter and raced out into the slow rain). The screams and, oddly, the nostalgic bow tie (so human, ridiculously old-fashioned; he sympathised even with this sole fact alone) was what made his paranoia be shelved as he ordered his team to put away their weapons. Not that any of them were trigger-happy at the moment—the memory of the out of time _Sky Gypsy_ was still fresh in their minds.

Owen approached cautiously, but the medical examination was halted before it began when the sporadic kicks and screams of the man only got worse with each attempt. Jack signalled him to fall back, while quickly surveying the area for anything else. He wasn't sure what he'd find. The elevated rift activity Tosh had noticed was big, huge even, and could only mean a few things—but there was no big blue box to be seen. No Doctor. No people at all were in the plass on this drizzly day, except for the stranger whose screams were finally dying down.

Instead of ushering Owen forward, Jack went himself, and approaching the man slowly he was in time to see the other's eyes flicker open, and catch sight of his own. For an instant, the stare was that of fright, anguish, and something resembling familiarity, before the eyelids dropped again as the stranger's body collapsed. It was as though he was a robot that had been shut off.

Looking back, Jack mused that it was the fright that had done it. Maybe the dull familiarity. Either way, with a moment he had hoisted up the now-unconscious man and swept back off to base, skilfully tuning out his team's urgent protests as he went. He instead found himself focusing on the soft rain dripping into his eyes, how the man was fairly light to carry, and realised he might have been out in the open for longer than they'd suspected, as the stranger was cold to the touch.

In the meantime, Owen and Gwen kept their guns pointed squarely at the man. Jack couldn't blame their lingering paranoia; the group had met one too many extraterrestrials who wore humans like meat suits. Still, he couldn't his own sudden lack of alert wariness, or why it'd been replaced with something resembling protectiveness towards the man. He shook his head gruffly (aware of possible alien influence on his thoughts, but reluctant to view the stranger harshly) as they returned to the base. A chatting Tosh and Ianto looked up at their entrance, and with a single glance the latter raced for some much-needed coffee, while the former hurried after them as they raced to the medical bay.

Martha looked up with a smile from organising her equipment, though this tightened into business at spotting the new addition to their group. In moments she was clearing the bed of a few lying instruments. "Friendly or hostile?"

"Hurt." Jack instead answered, lowering him gently to the covers. "He was screaming bloody murder in the front, coinciding with the increase of rift activity. Within minutes he'd fallen unconscious, so if he starts to wake up be on alert. His body temperature is below average, and he was clutching his torso."

Martha nodded in understanding, looking at the rise and fall of the man's chest before opening his eyes to shine a small light. "He looks like a human. Which doesn't say much, but the lack of dilation in his pupils already rules out numerous extraterrestrial disguises and influences. No ID?"

"Haven't checked yet." Jack shook himself from studying the man's features—why did they seem familiar?—and moved him onto his side to pull off the tweed jacket. Starting to search, he gave out a burst of laughter at looking in the pockets. "You won't believe this. It's bigger on the inside!"

"What?" Martha looked up, distracted from finding his pulse.

"His pockets." Jack slightly grinned at the rest of his team, who were staring at the now amused duo in confusion. "Ah, don't worry. It's a rare bit of alien technology. Reminds us of an old friend."

"You can say that again." Martha smiled as she felt the man's neck. This faded into a frown, and Jack could tell she was likewise concerned by the chill in his skin. "Decreased body temperature. Not enough to be dangerous, but something to look out for. You said he was holding his chest?" Placing the stethoscope in her ears, she lifted the other end to the man's torso. Cushioning it to the wrinkled shirt, her expression lit with confusion and further worry. Her hand shaking, she moved to the opposite side of his chest, listening intently as she silently bit her lip. All at once she swiftly inhaled, throwing the stethoscope to the near-by table. She gazed at the man in horror before practically hurtling for his wrist. "Jack? Get the handcuffs and strongest guns."

Narrowing his eyes, Jack nodded to his team to do so, while he stared at Martha and the unknown alien in trepidation. Tweed jacket was tossed onto a chair to be inspected later. "What is it?"

"He has two hearts." Martha said weakly, hands shaking even more harshly as she took his pulse (check, double-check, triple). "Two hearts! How many aliens have two? _He was supposed to be gone!_"

Without wasting time, Jack grabbed the handcuffs as Gwen raced back from the box, securing the alien's wrists to the bedposts with a curse. "Owen, Gwen, I want a gun on this man at all times. Don't speak to him, don't let him go, don't even get near him until we know more!"

"What's going on?" Tosh asked hesitantly, staring at the alien with a puzzled concern that was echoed by the others, all shifting to increased wariness while those with weapons hoisted them up. "Why are you so worried?"

"Very few species have both a humanoid shape and two hearts. The only one I know of is the Time Lords." Jack sighed as Martha nodded in agreement, pressing her hand over her eyes. "The Time Lords used to be one of the most powerful races in the universe, literally 'in control' of time. But after an enormous war they were all but destroyed. Trapped, actually, but it's the same thing either way."

"You think this is one of them?" Gwen approached the bed cautiously, gun wavering. "But, but he might be a refuge. He's hurt and in pain! Why do you think he's a threat?"

"Because there shouldn't be any refuges." Martha's hand fell as she stared at the alien worriedly. "The war and their entire planet was time-locked. There are only two of them that we know escaped—"

"—and they're both evil?" Owen sneered, cocking his weapon at the unconscious man. "Then what are we doing? Lock it up! Hell, we've been through this enough times before. It's going to escape, it's going to be angry: cut out the danger and kill it now."

"NO!" Jack and Martha shouted in unison, glaring at Owen who shuffled backwards, incredulous. Jack's stare was particularly venomous. "You don't understand. Of the two Time Lords, one is called 'the Master', and would enslave the Earth without hesitation. But the other is the greatest man you'll ever meet! Don't you _dare_ even suggest harming him!"

"Jack," Tosh said quietly as the air tensed further, "he was scared. We all are. Who is, who is the second one? Do you have photos of them so we can determine who this is?"

"He's called the Doctor." Martha answered instead, returning her gaze to the restlessly sleeping alien. "He's—magnificent. He travels the stars, protects Earth; he's kept us safe for so long and barely anyone knows he's to thank. Jack and I have both traveled with the Doctor, and have 'met' the Master."

"So _this_ is your Doctor. But, shouldn't you know then what they look like?" Gwen said, still puzzled, but looking at the alien with a new interest.

"It's complicated." Martha took the man's pulse again; Jack wasn't sure if she was hoping to prove or disprove her earlier tests. "Time Lords can regenerate. Which means that when they die they're able to be 'reborn' into a new body. I, I don't know much about it—"

"There's plenty of legends." Jack sat back in a seat, regarding the unconscious man with a cautious eagerness. "Their body, their entire personality is transformed, while their memories and 'soul' are passed on. I met both the Ninth and Tenth regenerations of the Doc. The Ninth was like an up-tight, leather jacket-wearing sailor, had a guilt complex the size of Belgium and was almost as foxy as his next form. Shame both were immune to my flirting. Had this thing for blondes."

"I know the Tenth." Martha said haltingly, though with a soft smile. Even when the diagnostics machine she ran over his body came back with no result. "He's brilliant; if he's still him, that is. Always bouncing around like a little kid, he has this scruffy bed hair and is obsessed with this brown trench coat."

"Janis Joplin's." Jack laughed. "Never grew tired of bragging about that. The Doctor travels around in the TARDIS. It's a 1960s police box that can move through time and space. No, I'm not joking."

"You went around with an alien in a police box time machine." Owen said drily, looking between the two as though they'd gone mental. "Probably with a hot tub."

"_Allons-y_!" The two said in unison, before grinning at each other. This only made the others further question their sanity.

"I'm not going to ask." Gwen eyed them as though trying to solve a particularly impossible mystery. Perhaps in order to salvage whatever logic remained, she shifted topics. "What I want to know is, is this the Doctor?"

The laughter died as tension soaked back in. "If he's regenerated again, it's possible." Jack said grimly. "But the TARDIS would've been by him and it wasn't anywhere to be seen. Trust me, I'm in the habit of looking. It appearing would've been enough to trigger our alert on the rift, but I almost hope it's not the Doc. You didn't see it, Martha. He was in immense pain. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even the Master. Well, okay, maybe him. Or Daleks. Them too."

Martha grimaced, taking the aliens' hand in her own (ignoring Owen's call of "What the hell are you doing?!") after tossing away another useless diagnostic device. "But the Master was killed, we both saw it! He refused to regenerate."

"Did you say they could time travel?" Tosh spoke up timidly. "Shouldn't it be possible for it to be either of them?"

"Unfortunately." Jack sighed, picking up the discarded tweed. "Let's see if we can find something before he wakes up. One little screwdriver and it'll be obvious."

"A screw—"

"A sonic screwdriver." Jack rummaged through the pockets, tossing out the items. "Don't ask me why the Doc decided to sonic _that_. Told me it'd come in useful for carpentry. Heh, useful for other things too." He didn't see most of the others' confused looks at what on Earth 'sonic' meant. "So, what do we have here. Ball of string, barbie, stethoscope, mobile, psychic paper, bag of tea, multiple bow ties, a fez with a—bullet hole?, packet of fish sticks…"

"The hell?" Owen muttered mutinously to an equally confused, though not nearly as hostile Gwen. Unlike the others, Jack and Martha were barely batting an eye at the contents of the pockets. It was during this mess that Ianto entered, balancing two cups of coffee as though they were the most important things in the world. The way that Martha gratefully took and cradled one, she clearly agreed. Jack tossed aside a worn yo-yo to likewise grin at the man in thanks.

Ianto, for his part, used his newly coffee-free hands to pick up the massive collected works of William Shakespeare that had been torn from the jacket, flicked through, duly noted the autograph on the title page, glanced at the rest of the discarded items, and turned to Jack with a raised eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"

"Ianto, Time Lord. Unconscious Time Lord, Ianto." Jack gestured between him and the bow-tied man. "We think. Probably. Possibly. Oh, and the stuff came from his jacket. It's bigger on the inside. Best not to ask"

"I see." Though Ianto did not. He opened and closed his mouth once or twice, before letting out a sighed breath and throwing rationality out the window (though to be fair, logic had never been welcome in Torchwood). "What's a Time Lord?"

"Very powerful aliens." Gwen spoke up helpfully, with a touch of sarcasm to top it off. "Almost extinct. Jack's decided to adopt him, even though he can't decide if this one's a master villain who'll destroy the universe, or his Doctor. The latter, apparently, travels through time in a big blue box."

"Time _and space_." Jack corrected, though scowling at the 'adoption' crack. "Can't ignore half of it. But it's just 'the Master'. Pretentious as hell, we know. He's otherwise known as Harold Saxon."

"Harold Saxon!" Tosh cried in surprise. "I voted for him—"

"The Doctor?" Ianto cut in, staring at Jack with a slight frown. "_The_ Doctor. Your Doctor?"

"Potentially? Hopefully? The hoarding's enough like him." He fingered the tweed jacket, still peering into the pockets. "Bow-tie's new, though. Suppose it could be worst."

"Not to mention how young he looks." Martha stared at the unconscious man's features fondly, though still with a touch of wariness. "Practically a baby."

"A 900-something baby." Jack laughed at a private joke, though sent a look at Gwen when she smirkingly opened her mouth. "Sounds about right. Though, for all we know, he could be ages older by now. Or a younger version. Huh, it could be any of the other regenerations."

"Or the evil Master?" Owen reminded snidely, staring darkly between the 'patient' and Jack. "Before you get buddy-buddy with the dangerous alien, you should decide who he is. Besides, you're sure you can trust this 'Doctor' bloke?"

"It doesn't matter." Martha said warningly, cutting Jack off from threatening Owen once again. "Whatever's happened, we have a very sick, probable Time Lord on our hands. A species who's allergic to most human medicines. I, I don't know how to help him."

Gwen relaxed her gun, pointing it more at the bed than the alien himself (though Owen's scowl deepened in seeing this). Indeed, she was by now looking at him with sympathy etched in her features. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"Could be anything from chicken pox to bubonic plague." Martha shrugged helplessly, moving to grab yet another diagnostic device. "The only one who would know and help might be right in front of us."

Owen jerked backward, letting his own weapon off the alien in fright. "It could be contagious!? Does it leave marks? Damn it, I'm _not_ being sick for the rest of whatever 'life' I have left!"

"Calm down." Jack assured, lightening his tone with sympathy, though not budging from his seat next to the patient. Tosh hesitated, wanting to comfort Owen but knowing that was the last thing he desired. "It's likely not contagious, at least to us. Do you know how rare interplanetary diseases are? It's like the idea of different species mating; nine out of ten times, we aren't compatible."

"Why do you know that?" Ianto groaned.

"It's _Jack_. It's better for all of our sanities not to ask." Martha threw away another useless device. "But nothing's working! What we need is a sonic screwdriver for diagnostics," she ignored Jack's snort of amusement, "or some other clue. When he wakes up he might be able to tell us what's wrong, but he could just as easily try and kill us. If only there was a way to determine if…he's him…or…" her voice dwindled off, her eyes widening at a particular object in the piled mess that came from the tweed jacket. Without another hesitation, she dived at it, throwing things about in a mad rush, "…OH! Oh god, please be here, please be here…you're a hoarder, you keep _everything_…if you threw this away I'm going to kill you, Doctor or no…"

"Martha?" Jack hedged, he and the rest staring at her frazzled figure in confusion. "What are you—"

"AH HAH!" Martha fell back, holding up the previously discarded mobile as though she was about to kiss it. She sent Jack a triumphant grin which was just as toothy as any Time Lord's, before flipping the object open and rapidly typing away. Her eyes darted across the small screen; the watching crowd found themselves holding their breaths even though they didn't know why. "When I saw the Doctor, I gave him a mobile with my number on it! If it's in here…"

"Martha, you're a genius!" At this Jack did kiss her, half-tossing the untouched coffee at Ianto, who looked like he'd dearly love to punch something. Martha simply rolled her eyes, pushing away and turning to the phone, which Jack likewise hunch over. "Please tell me it's in there!"

"M…" she murmured to herself, simultaneously scrolling while pushing Jack back to his chair and away from her personal space, "…Marilyn M (three missed calls), Martha J! Okay, alright, I'm calling it."

A few moments passed as all stared at the buzzing phone in anticipation. When a small melody filtered from Martha's own pocket, she grabbed and hurtled it towards her ear. "Hello? Tish, if it's you I swear—"

"_Hello? Tish, if it's you I swear—_" softly echoed from the mobile in Martha's lap.

"YES!" Jack cheered, jabbing his fist in the air. His grin was ridiculously broad, a look shared by his old friend. "Martha, you are incredible. Have I told you that lately? You are fantastic, brilliant, stunning, gorgeous!"

"Just don't kiss me again. I don't think Ianto appreciates it." Martha quipped back, shutting off both mobiles with a soft smile. But the look saddened as she turned back to the examining table, gently dropping the small machines. "So unless the Master stole the phone, which isn't impossible, the Doctor's here. He's sick and we can't help him. Jack…" she swallowed, not wanting to know the answer, "…how much pain was he in?"

"Too much." He answered shortly, his grin having also fallen. "Like I said, I'm almost hoping this is one of the Master's tricks. That the TARDIS hasn't shown up helps that theory, not to mention that the Doc would never go around without that screwdriver. So, be on guard. Saves us the heart break."

"His two broken hearts. Oh god, I hope he wasn't being literal." Martha murmured quietly, standing again before taking one of the stranger's hands in her own. "He really is too cold."

"Time Lords have a lower body temperature than humans." Jack answered, though a part of his mind wondered if this instance was too extreme. But before he could dwell on that further, Martha had given a small gasp as the man's fingers moved slightly between her own.

Instantly alert, the various guns were again raised as Jack gestured for Martha to step away from the alien. Though hesitant (as, with the return of shivers down the body, the only thing she wanted to do was help), with an understanding grimace from Jack she reluctantly let go of the hand and stepped away.

Moments later, the bow-tied alien gave a soft groan and rustle, opening his eyes enough to squint up uneasily. Jack, in turn, leaned forward, his welcoming grin warm but with an edge of warning. "Hello there—"

"Oh, don't start!" The unknown man muttered into the pillow, before blinking, coughing, and staring at the startled immortal. "Err, why'd I say that? You're foxy and have a cool coat, nothing to be ashamed of. The King of Coats, there's a title! No, wait, never saying that again. Rubbish title. You are wrong though, just like the 'dead-but-not-really' captor bloke. Wait, that was rude too! I'm sorry, you both are _fascinating_, really. So good bye! Wait, no. Hello? That's better. Ought to stop copying Sexy. Sexy? Who? More importantly, who am I? Ohhh, wait, I should ask about guns and captors. Especially the glaring zombie one." He blearily gazed at the shocked group, his voice swaying. "So you know, handcuffs are most definitively not cool. As are pointy things aiming at me. Pointy, flying, possibly fatal thingies. Very much not cool. Is that a pterodactyl I smell? Yes! Always wanted to meet one. What are they?"

For a few seconds, no answer came. Then all at once the room burst with movement. Martha flew forward to hug the startled patient, laughing with joy and incredulity. Gwen and Tosh struggled to hold a furious Owen's arms to his sides to stop from shooting the alien. Ever since the 'foxy' comment Ianto had been tightly griping the now-cold coffee, while calculating the throwing trajectory to the wall. All through this, the 'stranger-but-not-really' stared at them as though they were a travelling circus act, while weakly struggling to free himself from Martha's grip.

Jack, torn between a lurking paranoia and following Martha's example, made an idle mental note to elevate this day to one of his strangest yet. For even with the apparent memory loss and still-questionable Time Lord, this was gearing up to be a fantastically brilliant sort of strange. That is, if everyone managed to avoid being maimed or seriously injured… which was when a glass shattered against the wall as a bullet whizzed into a storage cabinet, followed shortly by enraged and startled screams.

Jack silently amended his statement as he tried to bring order to the chaos (while pulling a crying Martha away from a choking Time Lord): if everyone—from some miracle of miracles—managed to _survive_, he'd call this a success.

* * *

**A/N:** Amnesiac!Doctor is so ridiculously fun to write, you have no idea.

Thank you so much for the positive feedback! I know the first chapter is a wee bit confusing, but I've gone back and edited it a bit so I hope it's better. Also, I'm trying to decide if there should be any focus on ships. Let me know what you think!

Next chapter: what happens when a hyperactive, amnesiac Doctor is set loose on Torchwood? More specifically, their kitchen. Which is sadly lacking in fish fingers _or_ custard.


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